


The Language of Love

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 years of fluff, Aspec Friendly, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Slice of Life, So Married, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), and they keep on switching language, but Crowley can be a bastard too, did I mention that this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written?, just ask any immigrant, they speak a lot of languages, they've been on earth for six thousand years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:50:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23140186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: In a cottage in the South Downs, two husbands reminisce about six thousand years of people they met around the world.And Crowley can a bit of a bastard too.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 101





	The Language of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not saying that it doesn't make sense for Aziraphale and Crowley to speak English after at least two centuries in London. I'm just saying that they must be multilingual, and all multilingual people switch between languages mid-sentence sometimes.
> 
> Also, I wanted to write some fluff with... well, _something_ at the end.
> 
> Also: [the aria that Aziraphale’s trying to sing is this one.](https://youtu.be/U2vI6Jjeu8Q)

**The Language of Love**

_ Belle nuit, ô nuit d’amour, souris à nos ivresses... _

Aziraphale always sings while he’s slicing the onions. He stubbornly refuses any miracle to prevent tears, preferring the more human “run the knife under cold water, and cry anyway” method.

_ ...nuit plus douce que le jour, ô belle nuit d’amour... _

Crowley’s lounging on the sofa. He was skeptical about the idea of an open kitchen, but now he sees the appeal: he can keep on watching _ The Man from U.N.C.L.E. _ and be in the same room as his husband, even after said husband has rolled his eyes at the flash 1960s aesthetic and muttered something about dinner. He hadn’t muttered anything about singing _ all _ the roles of _ Les Contes d’Hoffmann. _

_ ...le temps fuit et sans retour emporte nos tendresses... _

Crowley pauses the movie. He smiles like he’s just had a brilliant idea.

Aziraphale stops both the chopping and the singing.

“I’m sorry, dear, is there anything wrong?” he asks. 

“Not really, angel. But... do you remember that lady, the one...” Crowley decides that only Italian has the right words for what he means. _ “...the tomato incident?” _

_ “Monna Vanna. 1573.” _ Aziraphale’s Italian has a Florentine inflection. _ “You did that...” _

_ “I think I’ve apologised enough,” _ Crowley cuts him short. _ “Anyway, was she the one who had that purse, you know, the brocade one...” _

“That was _Mariana,” _ corrects him Aziraphale in Spanish. “She used to live somewhere in _ Andalucía...” _

_ “Oh, yes.” _ Crowley smiles, and continues in the same language. _ “Granada. 1615. It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” _ Then he goes back to the language of a pleasant village in the South Downs, present day. “I’ve seen one just like that in Mary’s shop. Do you think it would work with my black dress?”

Aziraphale decides that thinly slicing a dozen onions isn’t as interesting as sitting on the sofa with the love of his existence.

“Which one, dear? Most of your dresses are black.”

“The one with the shawl, the one you said that reminds you of...”

Aziraphale switches to Yoruba.

_ “Adeola’s one? I’m not sure...” _

_ “No, my love.” _ Crowley replies in the same language, and the accent lingers on as he moves on to Greek, as it was spoken the Peloponnese around the second century A.D., creating a peculiar cadence. _ “Prisca. In Corinth? The flautist?” _

_ “Oh, I remember. You’d look dashing.” _Then, in English again, “for the Grange Park Opera?”

Crowley stretches his arms.

_ “There’s an Ibsen festival — it looks interesting,” _ he says in Danish. _ “Jerusalem, of all places...” _

Aziraphale’s eyes are glistening as he’s already planning an outing in Hebrew.

_ “Yair’s falafels, then there’s Sami’s knafeh; and we could...” _

Crowley interrups the list of delis.

“No wait, angel. It was Paris. _ Palais-Royal.” _

_ “Even better.” _ Both the list and the words turn into French ones. _ “We’ll have out falafels in Rue des Rosiers, there’s that place near Saint-Sulpice... There’s an exhibition of Élisabeth’s paintings, you _ do _ remember her, don’t you?” _

_ “Yes, I remember that afternoon. 1788, just before... well. A very interesting conversation.” _

_ “I thought we bored you, talking about lights and shadows and paintbrushes...” _

_ “It was interesting, though. Because I was certain that five years later you already were... what’s that you said?” _ He casually returns to English. “Out of practice with French?”

Aziraphale freezes.

“You knew,” he mumbles. “You knew it was a ruse, just to see you.”

“I’ve known _ you _ for six thousand years, angel,” sighs Crowley.

Aziraphale does _ that thing _ with his eyes that usually convinces his husband to do almost anything.

“Was it so terrible?”

Crowley’s grinning at a joke that took him two centuries to play. _ Perks of being immortal, _ he muses. _ Immortal, and in love with this idiot angel. _

He looks for something that doesn’t let Aziraphale off the hook. Not completely, at least.

“Pretending to save you and getting the best once-over of my life? No, that wasn’t terrible,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet. “Your singing, on the other hand...”

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale's preparing a soupe à l'oignon. In my headcanon, he's a baritone (bar miracles); that aria's been written for a soprano and a mezzo. Poor Crowley.
> 
> The tomato incident happened when Crowley convinced a Florentine lady to put one in her bread soup, thus inventing the "pappa al pomodoro."
> 
> The delis in Jerusalem are made up; the places in Paris are l'As du Fallafel and Le Bon Saint Pourçain.
> 
> The painter that Aziraphale and Crowley met in 1788 was Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun.
> 
> This fic is for my husband and fellow immigrant, who has to put up with my singing.
> 
> Don't be shy, make me smile, leave a comment!


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